


I wanna see everything (lay it all out for me.)

by barthelme



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Beach Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming of Age, Elio being gross, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Moderately Slow Burn, Oliver liking that Elio is gross lbr, Tourist Town AU, sex on a tiny bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: Oliver is a seasonal employee in the lakeside tourist town where Elio lives.But, Elio has seen new faces every year. Handsome faces, beautiful ones, too. And it’s not his first time noticing a boy--a man--but it is the first time he’s done more than let himself look. The first time he approached one in a way that was maybe more than friendly.He suddenly wants to be closer to Oliver. Wants to share this information with him. He wants him to know, even if he’s scared of how Oliver might respond. Yesterday, he’d been harsh, but maybe Elio had been annoying.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 180
Kudos: 163





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first time attempting to write E/O and I'm very nervous about it, but have enjoyed it a lot so far. I hope you do, as well!

Elio wouldn’t have noticed him except when the automatic doors opened an announcement echoed through the parking lot. “Clean up; Aisle Four.” He looked up because _what the fuck_? Aisle four was candy bars and nuts; who the hell made a mess there?

And then it didn’t matter, because he saw him. He saw the guy with marina issued, black nylon shorts that didn’t seem at _all_ like the men’s style. They were a bit shorter. Or, a lot shorter. Elio has seen them a lot as Marzia works at the marina shop. Whoever this guy is, he’s not wearing the men’s knee length shorts. 

His shirt is too big, which is normal. They only have so many polos and the new kids get last pick. The fact that whatever was left looks big on him is just, well, alarming. Because he’s lean, but long as hell and one of his lanky arms are reaching into his shopping bag to pick out a popsicle and--

“Elio? Come on, your mother is--”

Elio shakes his head and then nods. Reaches into the cart for the crisp handles of another paper bag. “Right, yeah, sorry,” he says, slinging another bag into the back of their trunk. Another, another, until the cart is empty. 

He pushes the cart back to the carrol. Gives it a shove. When he turns, he spots the guy with the shorts walking across the parking lot, slurping on a cherry popsicle. A bag swinging from his arm as he makes his way to the sidewalk. 

Elio slides into the passenger seat and rolls down the crank for the window. Rests his elbow on the offered ledge and stares outside. 

_____

His dad takes a moment to check the radio. Flips briefly to the weather, the news, then back to music before putting the car in drive. “Off we go,” he murmurs, and Elio hums a short tone. 

Stares out the window. Watches in the reflection as a parking lot turns into trees, into shoreline. Into waves and rocks and sand. Sailboats that dot the water which, in the next coming weeks, will become all he can see. Just water and sails. 

And then he sees him again. Long legs, casually walking on the side of the road. Polo flapping in the breeze from the lake. Popsicle sucked between his lips, reddening his mouth. 

Elio could turn around to watch and would be able to keep him in view for longer, but instead he tilts his head a little. Makes as little movement as possible and watches as the man walks at a slow pace, licks up the side of the popsicle to retrieve a few drips. Seems to swipe his tongue over his knuckles as well, not caring if anyone witnesses him behaving maybe as one would in private or a toddler would anywhere. Not caring that anyone could drive or bike by and see how eager he is to devour every melting drop, to not waste a single taste. 

And then he’s gone from his reflection as his dad turns a corner and they’re on their way home. 

____

Back at the house, the kitchen counters are covered with pans and dishes, wooden spoons that drip different colored liquids. Elio, still with his sunglasses on, his hands too heavy with bags to push them away, stands in the doorway and asks, “What should I do with these?”

His mother looks up from the stove and waves a spatula at the already cluttered island. “Just--make some room.”

Make room. Elio swings the bags onto the counter, not caring that he’s likely dirtying the bottoms with food crumbs and sauce spills. He pauses to push his sunglasses up, and in that time, his mother scoots him out of the way with her hip, raising to her tiptoes to peer in the bags. 

“The fish, Elio,” she says. Reaches into a bag and pulls out the fresh trout, wrapped in paper. Sniffs it and grimaces. Holds it out to Elio like it’s a soiled rag. “I said _smoked_ trout not fresh.”

“Dad said--”

“Well, he was wrong. Will you tell him to go into town and--”

Elio shrugs and says, “I can go,” without a second thought. He glances around at the exhaustingly busy kitchen. “I’ll go to Anchise’s and get the best smoked trout they have,” he says with a grin and a wink. 

His mother drops the trout to the counter, splattering a spoon’s remnants across the tiles, then reaches out to cup his cheeks with her hands that smell of coriander and oregano. “Thank you, Elly Belly.” 

“None of that tonight,” he warns, jokingly, then leans forward to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

When he wheels his bike out from the side of the couch and swings a leg over, the lower-hanging crotch of his jean shorts catches on the seat for a moment, something that probably happens most of the time, but he only notices it now. Thinks about the man from the grocery store, the way his shorts had been snug up against his crotch. About how, if he’d been closer, Elio probably would have seen parts of him that would make him blush.

____

The bike ride to town isn’t long. It’s one turn because of the bay, and then a straight shot to the town. Mainly downhill, so Elio coasts and lets the wind whip against his face, weave through his hair. He risks it and closes his eyes when he sees no oncoming traffic. Feels like he’s floating, and in those brief moments thinks about what it would feel to slouch, to forget, to strike a minor chord. He opens his eyes to asphalt and gravel. 

Right before the marina, he merges to the center and signals with his left arm that he’ll be turning. Pulls into Anchise’s Fish Market and doesn’t bother locking up. Leans his bike against the building and quickly goes in to retrieve the smoked trout. Of course, Anchise asks about Elio’s mother’s gardens this year; they often trade fruit and vegetables for fish. When Elio tells him the tomatoes look healthy and the raspberries seem to have tripled, Anchise pats the wrapped trout he slides across the counter and says, “On the house.” He thanks him and puts the trout in his backpack, the end of the package sticking out a bit.

He’s pedaling out of the parking lot when he sees him. The guy from the marina. He seems to be finishing up the last bits of a popsicle and Elio coasts. Wonders if it’s the same one from earlier. It can’t be, can it? He couldn’t have spent this entire time on one popsicle. Can’t have spent that much time slowly consuming the sweetness, licking up each drop, letting it rest and settle on his tongue. 

No, he had to have more than one. 

Elio turns in the direction of the guy, then swerves across the street to coast up next to him. “Hey,” he says, nodding his chin. “New here?” The chain on his bike jerks as he pedals another round. Watches out of the corner of his eye as the stranger slurps the last bit of popsicle into his mouth. Seems to chew it, which makes Elio’s teeth ache. 

Nods and says, “Yeah. I’m Oliver.”

“Elio,” he returns. Another jerk of his chain. He should check that. “So, you’re working at the marina, yeah? Summer gig?”

The guy--Oliver--nods and bites the empty popsicle stick. Bares his teeth in what could almost be mistaken for a grin. “Yep,” he responds popping the final ‘p’ as much as he can around the popsicle stick. “And what are you?”

“What--” Elio pedals twice and notices that Oliver’s legs keep in line with him, even if a bit rushed. “I--What am I? I--”

“Are you from around here?” 

“Oh! Yeah, I--I’m a local. A towny, I guess.”

“A towny,” Oliver muses, like the word had never been a thought. “Okay.”

Elio’s bike feels like it’s quivering between his legs. He needs to pedal, but they’re nearing the entrance to the marina. Across the way are the bunks for the seasonal sailing instructors. Soon, Oliver will be going in one of those directions. 

“My friend Marzia works at the store,” he says, then gives one last turn of his pedals. “Ugh, the marina store. Always says that Todd--Mr. Coleman--gives the easier shifts to the guys--and girls--who show up a bit earlier. So, like, just a tip.”

“Good to know,” Oliver says, his words more of a rumble in his chest than actual syllables. 

“And, I don’t know--like she says he’s really impressed by--people--who know the points of sail,” he says, taking a hand off the wobbling handles to point forward, “In irons,” to the left, “Point reach,” slightly behind (and he can feel his bike losing steam, feel his muscles ache from trying to keep the bike upright while Oliver keeps walking, sandaled feet kicking up gravel), “Broad reach.”

Finally, Oliver comes to a stop at the entrance to the marina. He takes the empty popsicle stick from his lips and uses the wooden end to point at Elio, making a slight jabbing motion as his lips pucker with each word. “Listen, I don’t need any sailing tips from a stranger with a--what is that, anyways? It smells like--”

“Smoked trout,” Elio says, coming to a stop and hopping off his bike seat and straddling the frame. Behind his sunglasses, he feels safe to narrow his eyes on Oliver. Tries to read his expression and figure out how this conversation took such an aggressive turn. 

“With a smoked trout in his backpack. Maybe you should just,” he huffs and gestures at the road. 

“Whatever, I was just trying to help,” Elio explains, hopping back on his bike and easily standing on the pedals to gain momentum as he circles back across the street. He waves a hand over his head and blindly calls back, “Later!”

He expects a goodbye, but he doesn’t get one, and the entire ride back to the house, Elio wishes he’d asked where Oliver was from. Or if he’s in college. He’s not sure why he cares. 

_____

His parents’ dinner party goes as planned. It’s no different than _every_ other dinner party they’ve had to kick off summer _every_ year. Sometimes, when Elio is in the middle of telling the same story he’s told to countless guests-- 

(this year, it’s about being invited to the Governor’s mansion to perform and how one of the girls who sat at his table thought the butter, which was carved into intricate spheres, was candy and ate all of theirs.) 

\--or repeatedly explaining what his plans are for the next year--

(he’s been accepted to a few schools, but he plans to take at least part of the year off to travel with Marzia. Yes, the girl from the marina. Yes, she can afford it. No, she doesn’t smell like fish, or at least Elio doesn’t mind. No, they are just friends.) 

\--he misses being younger and in bed before the dinner party started. His mother would put him to bed, wearing perfume and too many bracelets that would jingle together as she turned the pages of whatever book they were reading. She’d kiss him on the forehead, then duck out of the bedroom with a confirmation of, “Your father and I will check on you a few times, okay?” And they would, and Elio would usually pretend to be asleep so they would quickly return to their guests, leaving Elio to listen to murmurs and music, imagining what it would be like when he was old enough to join in on the fun. 

Maybe the first year, it was fun. He’d been allowed to stay up for the first time when he was nine. No other children were there and it was nice having his cheeks pinched and back patted. He felt like an adult, even when being treated like a child. He liked sitting next to people who had traveled the world, who had read books he might never understand but wanted to. At the end of the night, he’d been exhausted and he realized just why his parents usually stayed in bed late the day after. 

But, it was never very fun. Maybe because, after that, Elio was expected to attend--at least for a little bit--all of their dinner parties. Expected to make nice and help clear dishes and pour drinks when he was a bit older. But, it was lonely there. Surrounded by people who weren’t like him, even though he could see himself becoming like them. 

The dinner party goes well. Goes as planned. Afterwards, Elio tries to help his parents clean up, but they start turning lights off. Say, “Oh, we can do this in the morning. Sleep, Elio, sleep,” and each kiss his cheek before he goes to bed. 

He doesn’t sleep. He strips down to his boxers and lays on top of his covers, stares at the ceiling and thinks over and over how he told the story about playing at the Governor’s mansion, which wasn’t a big deal to him, but apparently was a _big deal_. 

He thinks about how moments like that he’s repeated like a cassette being rewound and played again, again, how those will likely be the things he remembers when he grows up. The stories he tells his children, if he ever has children (which, he thinks he will. He will? He will.) 

Elio falls asleep without brushing his teeth, the taste of smoked trout on his gums. 

_____

He wakes to a knock from his mother. Padded footsteps across his bedroom. “Elio,” she whispers. “Your friend Marzia is here.”

“Mmm,” he hums into the pillow. The sun isn’t fully lighting his room; it’s earlier than he normally wakes. Which doesn’t mean it’s early at all, just _earlier_. “Tell her I’m sick,” he smiles sleepily at her. 

“Elio!” his mother exclaims, a disappointed tone to her voice even though a kind smile plays on her lips. 

“I heard that,” Marzia says, hidden by the door. “Come on, the beaches will be packed for the rest of the summer. Let’s enjoy a quiet morning.”

Elio groans. “Give me five minutes.”

“E-li-o,” his mother scolds. “Three minutes. I’ll pack you snacks.”

He hopes she doesn’t put in any of the leftover smoked trout. 

______

Marzia’s shoe scuffs the pavement as she pushes forward, having to kick a few times to get her board moving fast enough to keep up with Elio. “Slow down, will you?” 

“You do have a bike, you know.” 

At that, she shakes her head and slaps at his shoulder. “And you have a skateboard,” she notes. 

“I’m just a bit more practical than you, clearly,” he teases, then rises up out of the bike seat to sprint towards the beach, leaving her behind. 

Truth be told, a morning at the beach isn’t the worst idea. As he pulls into the parking lot--the one shared with the marina--Elio scans the lot. It’s mainly empty, save for a few employee cars and one of two vehicles Elio has seen around town. In a week, the lot will be full by now. People getting early spots on the beach, renting boats.

Preparing for sailing lessons. 

Elio pedals his bike to one of the metal stands, then quickly throws the chain in place to lock it. Bikes come and go in the town; it’s not uncommon for you to arrive at a destination with one bike and leave with another. Most people probably don’t know whose bike is whose at this point, and even this is one he found last summer. But, it fits him perfectly and doesn’t creak, so Elio likes it. Wants to keep it and not be stuck with a random banana seat like he was a few summers back. 

As he straightens up, the wheels of Marzia’s skateboard are clattering behind him, grinding against the pavement. “Real gentleman you are,” she says, winded from trying to catch up. 

Elio toes off his flip flops, then bends to pick them up, slapping the soles together to rid them of any sand, a useless effort that will be erased in seconds, he’s sure. “Well, I didn’t realize you wanted me to treat you like a lady,” he teases, then bows slightly, holding a hand out to the beach. “After you,” he says, which earns him a swift punch to the shoulder. 

She leads them to a spot in the middle of the beach; there are a few other people spread out. A family building a sandcastle, a couple reading magazines, a man slathering himself with oil even though it’s too early to get a tan. “I wish it was like this all year,” she says, holding a hand out as Elio pulls the straps of his backpack off his shoulder. He catches a whiff of fish and hopes it’s just a leftover scent. “Just warm and open and _ours_.” 

“We’d get bored,” Elio notes, unzipping the bag and pulling out a towel his mother had packed. She spreads it out and they silently settle in. Nestling a tupperware of cheese and crackers between them that neither of them touch. He should have left them in the bag, but it feels strange to put it back, so he sprawls himself out, body partially on the towel, mostly in sand. Trunks on, shirt still in place. Letting the morning sun heat up and warm his skin. 

They’re mostly silent, which is something he likes about Marzia. One of the few things he likes about these rare quiet mornings. 

He closes his eyes and might think about napping, except Marzia groans, “Ugh, I figured they’d still be a few hours.” Elio props himself up and looks to see what she’s referring to. 

It’s not hard to distinguish the group making their way to the beach from a normal group of locals. They’re spaced out as they walk, a level of comfort that might close in by the end of summer, but not now. Strangers who laugh and talk loudly because they’re nervous. Mainly men, boys. Skin currently pale that will bronze in a few weeks, tan lines appearing where freckles once showed. 

Elio looks away when he sees him. Red trunks, shorter than they need to be, and a plain black t-shirt. It stretches across his chest, much snugger than the polo from yesterday. He looks away because the image is already pressed into his mind. Red and black and tight and lean and--

“They’re so loud,” Marzia sighs, straightening her suit. Elio realizes he has no idea what she’s wearing and--when he does notice--he likes it. It suits her. Pink gingham. High waisted bottoms and a top tied with thin strings.  
Elio’s eyes follow Oliver as he drops a messenger bag on the beach and pulls his shirt over his head. Lets it fall onto the sand, then pads to the water, the tight muscles of his back flexing as he raises his hands above his head and dives in right away, somehow gracefully swimming into water that is probably too shallow. 

He closes his eyes and sighs. Says, “You woke me up too early,” as he tries to doze, but succeeds only in focusing on the sound of the waves, of the splashing. Thinks about how Oliver must look now, standing in the water with beads of lake water rolling down his chest, his abs. Sinking into the fabric of his trunks. 

He wishes there were a way to go back. To redo their introductions. To make a better impression and maybe _get_ a better impression of him. It’s a long summer to spend wondering what could have been. 

And what could have been? He’s not even sure. He’s not even sure why he wants things to be different, why he wants something more. There’s nothing that distinguishes him--not really at least--from all the other seasonal workers. Sure, the sailing instructors and marina workers are usually a bit more fit than, say, the cabin cleaners and camp counselors. A bit more relaxed with a slight slouch in their posture, not enough to look lazy but instead at ease in their confidence and skin. 

But, Elio has seen new faces every year. Handsome faces, beautiful ones, too. And it’s not his first time noticing a boy--a man--but it is the first time he’s done more than let himself look. The first time he approached one in a way that was maybe more than friendly. 

He suddenly wants to be closer to Oliver. Wants to share this information with him. He wants him to know, even if he’s scared of how Oliver might respond. Yesterday, he’d been harsh, but maybe Elio had been annoying. 

Elio looks out at the water, thinks about how if he were to go in the water right now, there would be nothing between him and Oliver (and why does the name seem so natural in his head now? Would it feel the same on his tongue?) but water and wet fabric, even if the distance would be more than Elio would like. 

“I’m going swimming,” he announces, pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the towel before standing up and making a quick pace for the lake; he doesn’t bother looking if Oliver is still in the water, but catching a glimpse of red makes his stomach flip. He wades into the water, which is cold but relatively calm, braces himself for a moment before diving in. 

Before long, there are thin arms around his waist and Marzia and him are swimming like they did when they were kids and Elio forgets about red trunks and tanned shoulders, water dripping along crevices and creases where he’d like his tongue to chase. 

They swim and splash, stand and talk as the sun gets higher in the sky. When it’s overhead, Marzia sighs, “I need to work in a bit,” and starts for shore. He watches water create rivulets as it escapes her hair and runs down her back. His eyes don’t travel further than the twirled ties of her suit. “Rinse and get some food first?” 

Elio nods and heads for shore. Their actions start to seem how he imagines his parents feel, but without the fingers grazing the small of the other’s back. Without fond glances when eyes meet, without endearments. He wonders what that means; if it means anything at all. 

(He briefly wonders what Oliver’s hands would feel like on his back, his elbow, pushing the hair out of his eyes. 

Elio kissed Marzia once when they were kids. Or, younger than they are now. It felt nice, but their inexperience was obvious, Elio immediately trying to slip his tongue into her mouth and meeting the harsh wall of her teeth. They’d only kissed that once, as practice, but there had been clasped palms and beach cuddles, a comfort that was familiar but distant, even if on a path of sorts.)

“Meet me back here?” she asks outside the bathrooms; Elio nods and ducks inside.  
____

In the showers, Elio keeps his trunks on. 

Outside, Marzia had run into a friend from last summer. Another seasonal worker who worked at the Glenbelle Mansion, guiding tours and asking people not to use flash photography. Elio has taken the tour a few times, usually just out of boredom. Once on a date. The girl had thought it was so rude that the pineapple decorations could be used to tell someone it was time to go, an irony that was not lost on Elio, who spent the rest of the summer avoiding her phone calls. 

The water is lukewarm; the pressure is light. He scrubs the water into his hair, slaps it under his armpits. Thinks about how he didn’t bring a change of clothes, so he’ll be damp and uncomfortable wherever they get food. 

It’s an instinct for Elio to turn his back when he hears someone enter the shower area. Even though he’s still wearing his trunks, it feels too intimate to look at someone while he’s showering. He lets the water hit his face and then shakes his head, splashing water around him and happening to catch a glance of long legs kicking off red swim trunks. 

It’s not uncommon to be in the shower area with naked men, bare bodies. Normally, it’s older men who have no shame and are used to people not wanting to see them naked so maybe assuming there will be no eyes on them. But this isn’t someone elderly, this isn’t a body that no one wants to see. 

It’s Oliver, and the realization that Elio knows that from red swim trunks and thin calves, long legs--the realization that he already can spot Oliver from the tiniest of glimpses, the slightest of hints--weighs heavy as he snaps his attention back to the showerhead. The rusty showerhead and the iron-scented water. 

He tries not to, but Elio can’t help looking over his shoulder. Letting his eyes scan over firm thighs, a round ass that looks every bit as masculine as Elio might have imagined if he’d let himself. Everything that is the opposite of what normally makes him touch himself at night. He skims over Oliver’s calves, his hip bones, a bruise on his left shin. Up to his face, eyes closed and face thrust into the wreck stream of water. A waterfall cascading over his features that are nothing but man, man, male. 

Oliver turns a bit, revealing all of himself to Elio and he darts his eyes down to his soft cock, water glistening along his thick pubes which are untrimmed, wild and before he thinks (too late, too late) about how he would have liked to put his nose there before Oliver stepped in the shower. Elio darts his eyes back up to Oliver’s face, his eyes thankfully still closed. 

He should look away. He knows he should look away. There’s nothing he’s looking at that Elio hasn’t seen before, but it’s as if he has been given new eyes and is seeing the male body for the first time; he wonders what other senses might experience Oliver differently as well. 

Elio swallows and looks away quickly when Oliver’s eyes open. He’s left feeling stripped, naked. He reaches down to pull the waist of his trunks up to his belly button, the seam of them digging slightly between his ass cheeks. He scrubs his face. 

Scrubs it harder until his cheeks burn and when he lowers his hands, opens his eyes, Oliver’s shower is off and his body is gone. 

____

The water is running cold when Elio turns it off. Surely, he’s wasted enough time pretending to wash his face and armpits for Oliver to be gone. 

He shakes water from his hair and pads to the main room, grabbing his sandy towel from the hook on the way and using it to start wiping himself off. He wonders if the air dryers would be efficient enough to dry his trunks to a comfortable level when Oliver grabs him by the arm, his palm firm and jarring. He notices immediately that Oliver is fully dressed in his work polo and those damn shorts from yesterday. Or a similar pair. 

Elio’s not sure if he should brace himself for a fist against his jaw, or maybe phlegm spit at his face. But, instead, Oliver just steadies him and stares him down; calmly says, “I’m assuming people--men--are the same every place and just a fair bit of warning that not everyone would take so kindly to being stared at in the showers like that.” 

Elio can feel the tips of his ears heat up and he wishes Oliver had just spit on him instead. “I--wasn’t--I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

Then, Oliver pats his bicep and almost gives him a smile. “I said not everyone, okay?” 

Oliver almost gives him a smile, but it’s tense and straight. Solid. Elio shrugs and says, “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Oliver repeats, then grabs his messenger bag and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, y'all! Thank you so much for your feedback on the first chapter. I'm having more fun than expected writing this fic!

Elio exits the bathroom with his towel flung over his shoulder and trunks still slightly damp. He knows if they go to Mafalda’s--and they always do--she’ll scold him for getting the cloth of her booths damp, and is about to explain this to Marzia when he realizes she’s standing on the path to the parking lot, talking to Oliver and the girl who worked at the swanky restaurant that only tourists ever eat at. Locals know the only place to get fish and chips or crabcakes is Mafalda’s. 

He can’t recall her name--Clara, Cora?--but vaguely remembers seeing her on the beach and once or twice at a party. She’s standing close to Oliver and he wonders if they’ve met before, but he doubts it when she laughs at something he says and reaches out to touch his elbow. The touch makes him back away, a quick, thoughtless reaction that makes Elio smirk, especially when he reaches up to scratch his bicep, the same spot on his arm that Oliver’s hand had wrapped around so firmly. 

“Chiara, you know Elio,” Marzia says as he approaches, unzipping his bag for her to slip in her wet bathing suit, wrapped in her soggy towel. She’s changed into her marina uniform and Elio tries not to gauge whose shorts are shorter: hers or Oliver’s. (He’s fairly certain it’s Oliver’s, but it could be the optical illusion of legs that don’t seem to end.)

“I know _of_ Elio,” Chiara says, holding her hand out in what Elio can already tell will be the limpest, most, ‘please take control,’ handshake he’s ever received. He shakes her hand quickly as she bats her eyes at him and adds with a slight pout, “Seen you at parties and around town but you never introduced yourself.” 

“Huh.” Oliver elbows Elio lightly as he watches the exchange with an amused look. He teases, “Funny; he basically ran me over with his bike trying to introduce himself.”

“You know one another?” Marzia asks, linking her arm through Elio’s and starting to guide the group to the parking lot. He hears the flap of Oliver’s flip-flops that sound more resounding than his own. The crunch of Chiara’s sneakers on gravel. He itches to turn around and look to see if there is some sort of closeness between them. If Chiara has taken a page out of Marzia’s book and linked arms with Oliver. 

“We met the other day,” Oliver says from behind them and Elio dares a glance over his shoulder, just a quick one. Sees that Oliver’s large hands are somehow deep in his pockets, pushing his shorts down a bit and, more than likely, forcing the start of his thick pubes to pop out, hidden only by his polo. “Was getting back from the store when Elio said hello.” 

Marzia squeezes Elio’s elbow then lets their bodies drift apart as they get to Elio’s bike. She’d propped her board against it and now grabs it, dangles it by the wheels. 

“You, Elio? Said hello?” 

Elio shrugs and unlocks his bike, then starts to wheel it towards the sidewalk. “It was the polite thing to do. I’m a gentleman, remember?” He winks and narrowly dodges another punch from Marzia. Puts his foot on the pedal and pushes off, gracefully throwing his other leg over the bike and starting to pedal away. “Mafalda’s, right?”

He doesn’t look back to make sure they’re following, but he hears a throaty laugh from Oliver. Grins into the wind. 

_____

They go to Mafalda’s, the diner at the end of the block. Still near the marina, but hardly grasping a view of the water. An old building that often smells of mildew in the early morning, but the food tastes like home. Chiara and Marzia slip into one side of a booth, leaving Elio and Oliver to take the opposite side. 

The short bike ride over hadn’t been enough to dry Elio’s trunks, and while he waited for the others to arrive, he’d tucked his towel around his waist, folded his arms behind his back, and slowly paced the front of the building. Now, he wishes he’d spent that time biking laps in the lot, trying to dry his trunks, because Oliver spreads his legs, his knee bumping Elio’s and he wishes he could feel Oliver’s leg hair against his skin.

Plus, he feels a bit dumb with his towel around his waist. Marzia had remembered a change of clothes, Oliver had remembered a change of clothes. Chiara--well, he’s not really sure about Chiara, not yet. Marzia and Oliver? They’re responsible, it seems. 

Elio thinks about what Oliver said to him in the locker rooms. He hadn’t been mean about it, had just offered advice and he recalled a few weeks ago, when he and Marzia were dressed in shorts and sweaters, laying on the beach while it was still too cold to go swimming, but warm enough to start thinking about it. To test the waters. They’d gone wading in front of Elio’s house, then dried their legs in the setting sun and Marzia had bluntly said, “You should really think about getting a job this summer.” 

“I have to practice,” Elio said, because that was always his excuse. “And I play at--”

“Playing at the country club once a week isn’t a job,” she’d said. “They don’t even pay you.”

She was right; he got tips but that was it. It just didn’t feel right to waste time on something he wasn’t going to put an effort into later, but he realized the privilege that came with that statement, so he’d lied to Marzia. Said he’d look around for something. “But only part-time,” he’d said with a wink. 

He wants to know what Oliver wants to do. Why he’s here and if he’ll be back. But Oliver’s been nice today. Though nice may be too generous. He has been neutral and Elio made him laugh in the parking lot, which is a far cry from the way he’d dismissed him yesterday. 

Across the table, Chiara and Marzia are whispering. It’s weird to watch Marzia whisper with someone the way that she usually does with him, and Elio bites the corner of his lip. Wonders if they look this mischievous. 

Marzia stands up and reaches over to ruffle Elio’s curls. “Order my usual,” she says, reaching out a hand for Chiara and helping her out of the booth. Waggles her eyebrows and explains, “Ladies’ room,” before Elio can ask. 

Chiara winks at Oliver and asks, “Order for me?” 

“I don’t know what you want,” Oliver says monotonously. He’s opened one of the menus that was thrown into the center of the table and doesn’t look up at her. 

Chaira smacks her gum. “Just get me something you’ll think I’ll like, Oli.”

Elio is glad when Marzia pulls her away because his eyes sink into the backs of their sockets. Beside him, Oliver sighs and under his breath whispers, “Oliver,” which makes Elio snort. 

“What?” Oliver asks. He looks up from his menu at Elio, waiting for Elio to turn and face him. Elio knows this is what he’s doing, so he stares forward instead. Stretches back against the booth and raises his hands above his head in a fake stretch, then laces his fingers together and places his linked palms on top of his head. “What?” Oliver repeats again, bumping his knee against Elio, who shrugs until Oliver does it again, this time keeping his knee pressed against him. 

His arms fall dramatically to his sides and Elio says, “Oh, nothing, _Oli_. Better get to figuring out what you’re ordering the woman.” 

“I’d hardly call her a woman,” he notes, then goes back to the menu. His knee is still firmly pressed against Elio and Elio contemplates scooting to the edge of the booth. There are a few inches to go. Instead, he lets his tense legs fall apart, leaning into Oliver a bit. 

From the table up, they look like two boys--men?--waiting for their dates to come back. Elio isn’t really sure what under the table looks like, but he enjoys imagining it. 

He doesn’t touch a menu; he and Marzia come here enough that he can see it when he closes his eyes. He already knows what he’s ordering, and already knows what Marzia wants. A portion of him is excited to see what Oliver plans on ordering for him and Chiara. 

“What’s good here, anyway?” 

Elio shrugs. “Eggs Benedict,” he replies like it’s the only thing on the menu. 

“S’that what you’re ordering?” Oliver asks, and Elio nods. “What else is good?” 

“Marzia likes the Belgian waffle with extra strawberries, the hash is fine, omelettes are--”

Oliver cuts in and asks, “What’s the sixth best thing on this menu?”

“Sixth best?” At that, Elio sits up and pulls Oliver’s menu over. Settles it in front of himself and taps his chin as he dramatically scans over stock photos of breakfast food. “Oh, the breakfast burrito, for sure,” he answers. 

“Yeah? Not a fan?” 

Elios blows a raspberry into the air, a bit of spit flying onto the table. “No, I mean,” he says, suddenly talking with his hands, a habit he began at the dinner parties, trying to make whatever he had to say seem more important when, in actuality he’s talking about something as inane as a breakfast burrito. “Breakfast burritos are for people who can’t make up their mind. Do you want lunch? Do you want breakfast? Do you want your burrito? Do you want you scrambled eggs?” 

“It’s more than just scrambled eggs,” Oliver muses, leaning over so they can both look at the menu. He points to the description, then recites, “‘Scrambled eggs, chorizo, hash, cheese, seasoned sour cream, and enchilada sauce rolled into a homemade flour tortilla and slathered in our _secret sauce_.’”

Elio adds, “And a side of guacamole is only fifty cents extra.” 

“I barely know the girl,” Oliver deadpans, then slaps the menu closed and scoots back to his side of the booth as the waitress approaches their table with four glasses of water somehow balanced in one hand.

Elio orders the eggs Benedict for himself and the Belgian waffle for Marzia. Extra strawberries.  
Olivers orders a ham and cheese omelette with a side of hash browns for himself. For Chiara, he orders the breakfast burrito, sans guacamole. 

_____

Breakfast isn’t awkward until Elio realizes it’s awkward. He and Marzia have been carrying the conversation, but when Marzia finally says, “Well, actually we don’t remember what happened at the dock last summer because I was probably working and Oli wasn’t _here_ ,” it become apparent that ‘carrying’ had actually been commandeering. 

Elio swallows what is probably the second to last bite on his plate and asks quickly, making a point to say his full name, “ _Oliver,_ what did you do last summer?”

Around a mouthful of hash browns (his omelette had lasted mere minutes), Oliver bobs his head and says, “I, ugh, actually worked on a fishing boat last summer. In Alaska.”

Chiara splutters, “In Alaska?” but is largely ignored because Elio drops his fork and turns his entire body to face, Oliver, shoving his shoulder a bit too roughly, causing him to lean back a bit and then spring back forward. 

“You gave me shit for having a smoked trout in my backpack when you spent an entire summer smelling like fish guts?” 

Oliver blinks at him, then shakes his head and goes back to his hash browns. “See, I smelled like fish on a fishing boat. And you had a--”

“You had a _trout_ in the backpack you are currently…” Marzia’s voice falters off as she reaches under the table to snag Elio’s backpack and pull her clothes out.

____

After breakfast (and Elio wonders at what point it becomes brunch. Mafalda’s really isn’t a place where brunch happens, but the sun is high in the sky and Elio can see the parking lot at the beach is filling up with cars and bikes, so it’s hardly breakfast anymore), Marzia kisses Elio’s cheek, then turns to Oliver and says, “Don’t be a stranger.” Then, she links arms with Chiara, who throws a longing glance back at Oliver as she’s dragged towards the marina. Marzia's skateboard bounces against her knees as she walks, and Elio knows it will leave bruises, a reminder of this breakfast. Or brunch.

Elio has no idea when these two became friends, and he’s not sure he likes it. Chiara seems awful, but maybe he’s biased. Marzia’s _his_ friend. 

“She’s cute,” Oliver mentions, following Elio to the bike rack. 

Elio unlocks his bike and wraps the spring lock around the top tube. “We’re just friends.” He pulls his bike out and throws a leg over it. Pedals once, thinking he can get the last word this time, but he feels the click and the sudden loose slag. The pedal uncontrolled. He looks down as the chain slumps and clangs against the medal of the bike. “Fuck.”

He swings his leg back the way it came, grips the handlebars and deftly flips the bike backwards, an action that comes naturally to him and he can’t help but glance over at Oliver to see if he’s impressed. 

He isn’t. His arms are folded over his chest and he’s pressing his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip, watching. Brows tucked together and eyes scanning the scene, curious.

Elio fiddles with the chain; the black grease transfers to his fingers in spotty globs. This particular bike has never given him trouble, but he’s accustomed to fixing a loose chain. He guides it in place and slowly starts to move the pedal, but it sags again. Doesn’t catch. He tries again, again, again, and each time the chain slips loose, his heart speeds up a bit and the weight of Oliver’s eyes on him gain at least a pound or two. 

“I have a truck,” Oliver offers. “And I don’t have to work for another half hour--if you live--”

“This never happens,” Elio says, and the grease on his hands is starting to make his fingers slick. “I--usually it just pops back on,” he says with a laugh that doesn’t feel humorous at all. 

Then, Oliver is stepping closer and nudges Elio out of the way with the side of his knee. Reaches down for the handles and easily hoists the bike back onto its wheels. He holds it with one hand and reaches down to help Elio up. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Elio wipes his dirty hands on his trunks and gets to his feet unassisted. “That’s--I can just call my mom,” he says, pointing at the payphone attached to the outside of the diner. “It’s--”

But Oliver is already guiding the bike towards the dorms. 

“I can call my _mom_ ,” Elio mutters under his breath, mocking himself as he watches Oliver walk away. He rolls his eyes and jogs after him, his flip flops slapping loudly against the pavement.

_____

The ride to Elio’s is silent. There aren’t a lot of directions to give, and once they’re on the straightaway, Elio toys with the zipper of his backpack in his lap. Blinks at the trees and cabins flying by before looking out the dirty windshield. To break the silence, notes, “Looks like you ran into a swarm of mosquitoes,” and hates that he said it right away. 

Oliver smirks. He keeps his hands at ten and two and for whatever reason, Elio wasn’t expecting that. He also wasn’t expecting the truck to be this clean. It’s an old truck, a Ford. Slightly rusty around the wheel wells and Elio had expected to open the passenger side and need to clean it off, but the inside was spotless. Had a faint smell of pine and new car, and it made him think that Oliver’s probably the type of person who unpacks at a hotel, even if he’s only staying for a night. Who wipes down the counters after making a meal but before eating it. The dirty windshield is out of place. 

“The wipers are broken. Need to get them replaced, but I don’t know a good mechanic around here.”

Elio says, “Nico’s,” without missing a beat. A habit of giving tourists random information that is instinct to him. “Um, Nico is the best mechanic in town. He’s like three blocks from the marina. Works out of his garage, but he’s honest.”

“Won’t try to talk me into new tires?” 

Elio shakes his head. “No, but he might try to talk you into a beer after. He’s a friendly guy.”

Oliver quirks an eyebrow. “Friendly as in…”

“A nice guy,” Elio says, realizing what he almost implicated. “Friends with everyone.”

There’s silence again and they’re close to Elio’s house, so he doesn’t try to break it. Watches Oliver tap his thumbs on the steering wheel. 

“It’s the next driveway,” Elio says quietly, already reaching to undo his seatbelt. 

When Oliver pulls in behind Elio’s dad’s car, Elio is about to say thanks and hopefully hop right out and be done with _whatever_ is hanging between them. This thing that he thought he wanted but isn’t so sure about now. This thing that doesn’t seem to have a name and maybe never will. But first, Oliver speaks. 

“I hope I--at the--earlier,” Oliver stammers, putting the car in park and sliding his hands in controlled curves over the steering wheel. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, I just--”

“No, I--I didn’t realize I was--” he debates just saying, ‘looking.’ Putting the blame on Oliver, making it seem like he was imagining it. “That obvious,” he says instead. 

Oliver snorts and stills his hands at the bottom of the wheel. His thumbs drum the leather. “I--well, I shouldn’t say what I want to, so let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve been looked at like that.”

Too quickly--too jealous--Elio spits,“Chiara was looking at you like--”

“Well, I don’t really _care_ how Chiara looks at me, now do I?” He still won’t turn to look at Elio, but he wishes he would. Wishes he would reach out and touch. Wishes he had the balls to touch first. 

Before he can stop himself, Elio asks, “Are you saying what--”

“I’m saying exactly what you think I’m saying.” And then, finally, Oliver looks over at Elio. Looks at him like he’s waiting for the same reaction Elio was expecting back at the locker room when Oliver grabbed his arm. He can still feel Oliver’s fingers on his flesh and Elio absently reaches a hand up to touch his own bicep.

They look at one another for a moment and Elio feels like he’s being seen for the first time. He swallows and says, “I should--you probably have to get to work,” and then slides his fingers along the door, looking for the handle. Fumbling with the window crank, the lock. 

“Here,” Oliver whispers, leaning across the car and reaching for what probably used to be a silver handle but is now tarnished and hidden against the grey door. Elio tries to sink into his seat further, but he can’t escape the smell of hair that’s been scrubbed in a lake, a body kissed by morning sunshine, a work shirt that recently came out of storage. 

The door pops open and Oliver pauses for a moment, the heat of his body more than the sun streaming in through the windshield. He looks at Elio, and Elio notices a slight nick on his chin from shaving, a dot of dried blood. “See you later?” 

“Later,” Elio nods, and then Oliver is back on his side of the truck and Elio is sliding out. Realizing he forgot to thank Oliver but only after he’s shut the truck door and slung his bag over his shoulder. Given a half-hearted wave as Oliver backs out of the driveway. 

It isn’t until he’s in his room that he realizes he forgot to get his bike out of the back of Oliver’s truck. “Fuck,” he hisses, flopping back against his pillows and staring up at the ceiling. He’ll just have to go into town this afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

After lunch, Elio asks his mom for a ride to the marina. “You just saw Marzia,” she says, almost like a punchline as she puts away dishes. 

“It’s not to see Marzia,” Elio says, grabbing a grape from the fruit bowl and popping it in his mouth. He looks out the window to the side yard and can see his dad hosing out the pedal boat. He and Elio’s mom like to take it out after dinner most nights. They’ll put their wine in travel mugs and pedal out to watch the sun set; his dad would always ask, “Want to slum it tonight?” and slosh the wine in travel mugs. Wait for an answer even though Annella never said ‘not tonight.’

Their first ‘slumming it’ night of the summer must be later. 

“Then why are you going into town?”

Elio shrugs and reaches for another grape. “Can’t I just go into town?”

“Well, if you were in the habit of just _going_ into town on a regular basis--

Elio turns and swallows. Rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. His mom continues putting away dishes, her back to him. 

“I regularly go into town!” he exclaims, immediately recognizing that he sounds like he’s trying to hide something. Because he _doesn’t_ go into town for no reason. Unless he has errands to run, or Marzia to see, or--like this morning--Marzia drags him there. For parties every now and then and, rarely, out of boredom. 

But he doesn’t get bored much. He has the lake, he has his piano, he has trails in the woods, he has books. Dinner parties and helping around the house and planning for next year. He has things to do and hanging out in front of the ice cream shop, wasting time tanning on the docks, drinking on the beach at night: none of those were things he really looks forward to doing when winter ends and not something he will miss when summer is done. 

His parents always push him to go into town more. Tell him he’ll be older one day and miss staying up all night on the beach, will miss making a fool of himself in front of tourists. They both had grown up here, both will likely die here. They have lived every stage in this town and, while that might not be what they want for Elio, they do seem to want him to have the memories they’ve had. Or his own adjacent ones. 

“I--you’re always telling me I should go into town more, so now I’m saying I want to go into town and you’re--”

“What’s going on, Elio?” his dad asks, walking into the kitchen. Elio hadn’t even heard the screen door shut behind him when he’d come in the house, too caught up in his own head. 

“He wants to go into town,” Annella says, her tone revealing she doesn’t believe Elio _just_ wants to go into town. 

He watches as his dad walks to the cupboard and grabs a glass tumbler. Pours himself a glass of water from the pitcherin the fridge, then takes a long sip. There are bits of grime on his knuckles, remnants of a spider web sticking to his shirt.

“That’s wond--that’s. Elio! You don't need our permission to go to town, you know that. Annella, why is he asking if--"

Elio’s mother folds her arms across her own chest and leans back against the counter, a mirror image of Elio, who heaves a sigh. “Oh, he’s saying he isn’t going in to see Marzia is all.”

“I do things other than hang out with Marzia,” Elio insists and he lets out a half cry when his parents exchange a _look_. “I do!” he reiterates. “I--just--Marzia--I’ll just walk,” he sighs, and pushes away from the counter. He should probably put sneakers on. 

“Elio, I’ll give you a ride,” his dad says, following him out onto the screened in porch. “Just let me grab my keys and I’ll--”

Elio spins and hisses, “Why is she always doing that shit?” He doesn’t care if his mom hears right now, because it’s true. 

“Doing what?”

He flutters his hands and cracks his knuckles, then points towards the kitchen where Annella has probably resumed cleaning the kitchen, completely forgetting about her conversation with Elio. “That _thing_ where she wants me to do something, and I say I’ll do it, but then she--”

“Ah, _that_ shit,” his dad says, amused but knowing. “Let me get my keys.” 

_____

Elio’s dad is quiet on the way into town. Not silent; he points out that the Nelson’s got a new sign, that it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. He hums along with the radio. He’s not silent, but he’s quiet, and when he pulls into the parking lot of the marina, he reaches out to turn the radio down. Asks, “Do you need me to pick you up later?” 

Elio shakes his head and says no as he gets out. Is two steps from the car when he rolls his eyes and turns back. Leans into the open window and says, “Will you tell mom I love her?” 

Samuel laughs and nods. “Of course, Elio.”

Elio backs up, then turns. Listens to his dad slowly drive away. 

As he approaches the marina store, he notices something familiar. His bike, leaning against the building. He stops and stares at it. Sees the chain put back in place and immediately realizes Oliver could have helped him earlier. They could have avoided the awkward ride home. 

But Oliver chose to pretend he couldn’t help. But he could. And that thought makes Elio bite back a smile that slowly transforms into a scrunched face and plummeting stomach because Oliver _also_ could have delivered Elio’s bike to him. He could have waited for Elio to come back into town and _look_ for his bike because obviously Oliver knows he would be looking for it. 

He could have waited for some form of contact, but instead, he’s dropped the bike off at the marina store. With Marzia. 

Elio looks out at the lake, which is decorated with sails. Oliver’s probably on one of those boats right now. Probably on one of the boats, not thinking about Elio at all, while Elio debates if the bike means Oliver likes him, doesn’t like him, or a million steps in between . “Fuck,” Elio whispers, then runs his hand along the bike seat. What if the awkward car ride home was his chance and he blew it?

_Chance for what?_ Elio ponders this. His chance to tell Oliver he’s what? Interested? Curious? To tell him he wishes he could find the words to say ‘I like you, but I don’t know why and I don’t know what that means.’

The door creaks open and Marzia sticks her head out, “Did you bring me lunch?” and Elio snaps his attention away from his bike. 

“You just ate,” Elio murmurs, even though, technically, he’s just had lunch even though _he_ just ate, as well. He’s not Marzia’s mother, though. 

She grins and nods at the bike. “Oliver said to tell you he cleaned up your gears.” 

“Oh,” Elio says dumbly; he’s never once cleaned up the bike, and when he scans his eyes over the frame, realizes it looks less, well, used than it did before. “When did he have time to--”

Marzia shrugs. “I mean, you just missed him. Maybe he did it on his break.” 

At that--the thought of Oliver using his break to fix and clean up Elio’s bike--he has to hide his smile behind his hand. “Oh, right. Ugh--did you want me to grab you--”

“I have a sandwich,” Marzia says, then holds the door open for Elio. “You coming in, or…”

His mom would probably be happy if he went inside and spent the afternoon hanging out with Marzia. Helping her wind rope and stock binoculars, compasses. She loves Marzia and, more than once, Elio has walked in on her talking to Marzia’s mom on the phone. Dropping hints that they both think Marzia and Elio just need time, they just need to realize what they have, they just need to grow up. They just, they just, they just...

Elio grabs the handlebars and starts to push the bike towards the sidewalks. Winks and says, “I think I’ll go for a ride. Make sure he didn’t mess with my brakes.”

Marzia shrugs and waves him off. 

_____

Elio’s ride takes him to the edge of town where cabins and houses are sparse and fields become longer and more open. He comes to the three-way intersection and pauses. Left would take him to one of the larger cities nearby. He goes there a few times a year for school shopping and Christmas gifts. His parents go once a month for a date night. 

Right leads to more lake towns. He rarely goes to them because they’re all the same. He decides to head back, and winds his way back into town. Circles by the garage and waves when he sees Nico look up from under the hood of a grey Buick. 

He tries to avoid it, but he can’t help himself. Coasts by the dorms and tries to imagine which one is Oliver’s. He’s been in the dorms before; they’re cramped. Hotel rooms that have been turned into two separate rooms with a joined bathroom. 

Two years ago, Elio lost his virginity in one of those dorms. A girl from Wisconsin. They’d met at a bonfire and she’d asked him to walk her back; she had just graduated and Elio didn’t understand why she wanted him to come in for a beer, why she’d taken interest in him to begin with. But, she had and they’d ended up fucking on her twin bed; he’d lasted mere minutes and she’d smiled up at him, but asked him if he needed a ride home before he’d even gotten dressed. 

He pedals another block, then circles back to the marina. The sails on the lake are closer to shore. After circling a few blocks, he decides to head home. 

_____

The next few days, Elio stays away from town. He never has a reason to go in, but now he makes a point not to. Marzia calls, and Elio tells her he’s not feeling well. 

He has a cough.   
____

It’s a Tuesday night. 

A Tuesday night that feels like a Friday. It’s nice. Elio rolls onto his belly, the oversized towel underneath him shielding him from the sand. It’s--

It’s really good. He toys with the terry cloth beneath him. It’s been a boring couple of days. Marzia called twice. He declined invitations to parties. His parents had some guests. Elio sat through them. Told them about how he has plans to travel. He’s not sure where, but they don’t need to know that. That’s something Elio has learned: people want to know _that_ you have plans, not what the plans are. 

It’s a Tuesday night and Elio’s parents have docked their little pedal boat. Retreated to the television room to watch the next part in some miniseries.

It’s a Tuesday night and Elio’s looking up at the sky when he hears, “Your mom said I’d find you here,” and the voice alone makes Elio dig his heels into the sand. 

He looks up, startled. Sits up. Asks, “What?” Because this--the beach--is his place. It’s not as nice as the beach in town; the shore is rocky and you have to wade forever to get out far enough to swim, but that’s not the point. The point is the waves rolling into shore, the moon reflecting off the water. The point is an empty plot of sand that’s his to lay on, to dig his toes into. 

“Hadn’t seen you in a few days,” Oliver says, kneeling next to Elio’s towel. He traces the neon pattern with his finger, then falls onto his bottom. Crosses his legs and sticks his hands in the sand. 

Elio blinks at him. He’s only _known_ Oliver for a few days. “Didn’t feel well,” Elio lies. 

Oliver gives Elio a once over, his eyes seeming to freeze at Elio’s neck, his waist, his knees. He’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts that used to be jeans. “You seem--” Oliver starts, but then he shrugs, sighs. Makes eye contact and asks, “I--the other day. I didn’t make things, like--”

“No,” Elio says. His voice is quiet. Not quite timid, but not exactly confident. Because Oliver _did_ make things _something_ , even if Elio isn’t sure what that something is. Even if, last night, when he had a fist around his cock, he clutched his beach towel to his face, moaned into the terrycloth, then breathed in the scent of lake water. 

The sun hasn’t completely set, but it’s close, and the sky is tinted purple. Elio shifts to the side a bit, leaving almost half the towel free, but Oliver makes no movement to join him. He feels stupid with this empty space next to him, so after a moment of silence, he rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow. “Did you just come here to--”

“I’ve never told anyone,” Oliver says, his voice almost masked by the waves. 

“Never told--oh,” Elio says, understanding the weight of that admission. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” he assures him. 

“I know,” Oliver says, smirking and then standing up. He’s wearing black flip flops. The kind you get at the dollar store. Denim shorts that are twice as long as his work shorts. Elio realizes it’s the least he’s ever seen of Oliver’s body and wonders if it’s intentional. “That’s why I told you.”

That’s why he told him. 

Elio nods and lets those words settle. 

He’s about to invite Oliver to sit, about to tell him he likes to come here at night (maybe leaving out the part about how it’s where he comes to think, to be alone. Maybe leaving out the part where he’d be inviting Oliver to be alone with him,) but Oliver speaks first. “I have to get going. Early morning tomorrow,” he says, and he’s already backing up. “You should visit Marzia.”

“Oh?”

“Just seems like she’d like to see you,” he says, pausing his backwards walk. Waiting for Elio’s reply. 

Elio thinks about Oliver’s truck. The one that’s likely parked in the driveway. The truck where they were so close the other day, where Oliver reached across Elio’s body, where Oliver opened up to him and basically invited him to touch, to be touched.

Elio clears his throat and asks, “And you?” He thinks about standing up. Approaching Oliver and demanding he tells him. Because, really, he has spent the last few days convincing himself he doesn’t need to go to town when his mind and body are giving him multiple reasons. To touch Oliver’s arm, to smell his skin, to coast by the dorms and wonder what Oliver is doing inside his. To knock on door after door until Oliver answers. To push him into his room and close the door behind their bodies. Maybe push Oliver against it. Maybe let himself be pushed onto the bed, the floor, anywhere. 

He has been filled with reasons to go to town, but he’s spent days pretending to have a cough. Days letting the ‘but what if,’ outweigh his desire to find out if Oliver wants to see him. 

“What _about_ me?”

Elio shrugs and rolls onto his back. Stares at the sky. Silently, he dares Oliver to blanket him with his body. To settle into the sand with him, to tell him more things he hasn’t told anyone else. He knows it won’t happen; can tell that moment in the truck was as far as Oliver will go without a bit of encouragement. 

“I guess I was just wondering if Marzia is the only one who would like to see me if I go into town.”

Too quickly, Oliver responds, “Chiara mentioned you yesterday. She’s pretty pissed you didn’t introduce yourself last summer. Thinks you’re a bit of a--”

“I don’t really care what Chiara thinks of me, which is why I never introduced myself to her last summer and why I’m not going into town to see her. But if Chiara and Marzia are the only reason to go into town, I--”

“I get off work at two tomorrow,” Oliver says, his words like a wave cresting in Elio’s ears. “If--yeah, if you’d like to--”

He rushes to agree. Says, “I’d like to,” and he thinks he hears Oliver breathe out a relieved sigh. It could be the breeze. 

He’s aware of Oliver’s body; he’s been aware of his body from the moment he first saw him. But right now it’s not about his calves or his arms, his hands. It’s about the awkward sway of his hips, toes curling on his flip flops. A body that wants to stay but feels like it should go. “I thought you had an early morning,” Elio notes, giving him a push. An out. 

“I--yeah. Goodnight, Elio,” Oliver says, and then he’s walking away and it takes what little restraint Elio has left to keep from following him. Following him to his truck, asking him to come up to his room, to actually meet his parents, to show his mom that Marzia isn’t the only reason Elio should go into town. 

He strains to hear Oliver’s truck start and only then lets himself whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Oliver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is when things start to pick up! <3 Have a great weekend, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for missing last week. Was a bit of a trainwreck and couldn't concentrate. 💚 Chapter count went up as I finally completed the entire outline and have a better understanding of how much ~~beach sex~~ plot is left.

Elio expects the next day to drag, but instead he’s helping his dad clean up-- 

(“You go rest,” he’d insisted when Annella started to clean up the table. “Elio and I can take care of this; you do too much for us already.”

“I help plenty,” Elio had murmured, but he was already gathering the cloth napkins in his fist.)

\--after lunch much sooner than he is ready. He sneaks a glance at the clock that hangs above the kitchen doorway. Almost one o’clock. 

“Your friend was nice,” his dad comments, his voice a bit too casual for Elio’s liking. “Polite.”

Elio hums, then closes the silverware drawer with his hip; the forks and spoons clatter against one another and it sounds like chimes. How long had Oliver even been at his house? Elio assumed he hadn’t even made it inside. 

“Your mother and I were--”

“--Oh, great--”

“-- _talking_ ,” Samuel continues, raising his eyebrows at Elio. Clearly telling him to quiet down and listen. “And, we don’t recall you really making friends with any of the seasonal workers.”

“I’ve been friends with--”

“ _Elio_.”

He sighs and stares at the floor, lets his eyes trace the lines of the tiles. It’s true, and the fact makes him think about Chiara. How Oliver said she was upset Elio had never introduced himself. Marzia could make friends with everyone, and Elio always chalked it up to working at the marina. She had inside jokes with these people who would leave in a few months, while Elio struggled to be polite.

“I understand. It’s hard when people come and go, it’s difficult to want to get close to them. But--well, Elio, it was nice to see someone looking for you who isn’t Marzia. And we love Marzia--you know we love Marzia like she’s one of our own.”

“Okay?” Elio asks. It’s not like Elio doesn’t have friends. He _has_ friends, but maybe not the kind who would show up unexpectedly on a Tuesday night. Not the kind who would fix his bike after offering him a ride home, who would kindly tell him to keep his eyes to himself if he knows what’s good for him. 

“That’s all, Elio. It’s nice, that’s all we wanted to say, okay?” He steps closer and taps Elio’s chin with his knuckles, guiding his head up. Samuel’s voice is hushed, serious. “I told your mother I would talk to you, okay? And I’ve talked to you, now. If you want to talk more--about anything--you just let me know, okay? Or your mother.” 

Elio nods. Checks the clock again before giving his dad a quick hug, smiling against his shoulder. “I’m--I think I’m going into town for a bit, ” he says before running upstairs to grab his bag. 

When Elio comes back downstairs, he can hear his parents talking quietly in their bedroom; a ten dollar bill is on the counter with a scratch pad next to it. His mom’s handwriting reads: _Have fun, Elio!_

His eyes roll slightly and he is about to leave the money--the _allowance_ \--on the counter, but he really doesn’t get many tips at the country club. Elio pockets the money and lets the screen door slam behind him.  
_____

He’s early. Too early. Knows he seems too eager. Thinks he should have watched some television, sat on the beach, read a fucking book or anything before heading into town. But, he’s here and he’s early and he doesn’t even know what the plan is. Elio locks his bike and looks over at the marina store. He can see Marzia through the front windows. She’s leaning over the counter, one hand on the page of a book and the other smooshed into her cheek. A slow day for her. 

“You’re early,” Oliver’s voice says from a distance, and Elio jumps a moment too late. Not when the voice breeches the air, but when he realizes that it’s Oliver. That if _he_ is early, then Oliver is a liar. 

“And you’re supposed to be working,” Elio recovers. He pockets his keys and turns to see Oliver walking across the parking lot, hands in his pockets. 

He’s wearing loose jeans cuffed at his ankles to reveal tight tendons and sharp bones. His blue button up is slightly wrinkled, and he’s rolled it up to his elbows to appear casual; however, it’s definitely a dressier shirt. A shirt you might wear on a date. His hair is brushed back as well. Ridges forming due to the wetness and--

“You showered,” Elio notes. 

“Didn’t want to smell like fish,” Oliver grins. Adds, “But maybe you’d like that.”

Elio shakes his head and then reaches out to punch Oliver’s arm with a limp fist. “Shut up. I was--it was for a dinner party. And _anyways_ ,” Elio continues, turning and starting to aimlessly walk towards the dock, happy when he hears the flapping of Oliver’s sandals behind him. Following. “What do you care what I like?” 

A whispered, “I probably care too much,” comes from behind, then Oliver is double stepping to fall in line next to Elio. “Is that okay?”

A shrug and a smile is Elio’s response. “So, what are we going to--”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. My mom made tuna melts.”

A laugh, a bump of hands as they walk. Elio’s fingers instinctively balling into a fist and he notices when Oliver’s next step is a bit out of line, taking him inches away from Elio. “Course she did.”

“Are _you_ hungry,” Elio asks, realizing that Oliver’s been working all morning and afternoon. 

“No--Chiara brought me a sandwich.”

Elio takes a step out onto one of the docks; it’s empty. Soon, it will be littered with a house boat or two, sailboats, yachts. It will be loud and littered with people who feel at home in a place that is only theirs for a few weeks or months out of the year. People who will tell everyone--even Elio--about how this is their childhood. Where they want to retire. 

The entire time, Elio will think about how this is where he is stuck. 

He turns to Oliver and asks, “She’s already in the habit of providing for you? You move fast.”

To hide what has to be an obvious look of annoyance, Elio tries to spin and continue walking out above the water, but Oliver grabs his bicep, holds him in place. “I was hungry, Elio. I--we talked. And I told her that I have a girlfriend back home.”

“You have a--”

Oliver rolls his eyes, exaggerated, even for them. “Do you think I have a girlfriend back home?” His grip tightens on Elio’s bicep and Elio wonders what this looks like. If it looks like two men on a dock, arguing about--well, who knows. A girl. A girl who, in this case, doesn’t exist.

It doesn’t feel like an argument, though, especially when Oliver’s thumb caresses his arm. Sneaks up under Elio’s sleeve. When his grip loosens and he’s no longer holding onto Elio, but touching him. Repeating, softly, “Do you think I have a girlfriend back home?” 

Elio shakes his head and says, “My second favorite spot is over here,” then easily pulls away from Oliver’s hand. Thinks about how nice it would be to feel Oliver’s hand chasing down his back, maybe tugging at his shirt or dipping his fingers in the back of his shorts as he followed him. But they can’t do that, not here, not now. Not with Marzia probably watching from the store, tourists mingling about. Locals who recognize Elio and would definitely talk to his parents about what they saw.

(And he knows his parents wouldn’t care, wouldn’t care at all. But _that_ makes him not want them to find out even more somehow. That they would probably smile and say something like, “Well, we prefer that to finding out about his drinking problem, right, Francis?” Throw their approval back at nosy neighbors who actually have problems to hide.)

“Your second favorite, huh? Not going to take me to your favorite on a...” Oliver prods. 

“A first date?” Elio offers and his voice isn’t as even as he’d hoped. “No, you’ve already been there. It’s the beach at my house. That’s my favorite place ever,” He says, then drops down at the end of the longest pier. It looks out at the water and, from here, it seems endless. Limitless. 

“A date, huh?” Oliver teases, but when he sits down, his shoulder is hot against Elio’s. “I like that I’ve been to your favorite place,” he adds. 

“What? Did you think I just hang out on the beach because it’s pretty?” 

Oliver snorts. “I mean, that’s a good reason to. You live in a vacation town. People literally travel here to do it--”

Elio feels defensive, though Oliver hasn’t insulted him or the beach at his house. But the thought that Oliver is judging him--judging his favorite place, judging what he likes makes his cheeks hot. “I like it there. I grew up there. I--”

“What do you think about there? What _were_ you thinking about there?”

Elio focuses on the waves. They aren’t harsh, but they’re steady. Rolling into shore. He doesn’t want to open up that much, not yet, even though he knows damn well he would if Oliver asked the right way. 

He remembers what his dad said in the kitchen, about how it’s hard to get close to people who come and go and he realizes he doesn’t want to go back and forth with Oliver, not when they have only a summer, maybe even less time than that. He doesn’t want to do this dance they’ve been practicing. He chances, “I thought about you fucking me there. After you left, I mean.”

“Don’t say that,” Oliver says immediately, but it comes out like a laugh, a joke, a lie. 

“Why not?” Elio asks, but he feels his cock perk up. Wants to know that Oliver’s is as well. Remembers his pubes, his soft cock. Wants a chance to talk to him when he’s naked, vulnerable. Straddle his thighs and tell him what he wants, watch his cock thicken and rise and--what the fuck is wrong with him?

What is right about him?

“Because,” Oliver whispers. Looks back and forth and then asks, “Have you ever--has there been anyone who--”

“I’ve never been fucked, if that’s what you’re asking,” Elio says. He nudges Oliver’s ankle with his own, the weight of the water a welcome tension. “I have never but I--you know.”

“Okay,” Oliver responds. An instinct, a promise. “I’ve never--I mean I haven’t---”

“Wh-a-at?” Elio asks, then crosses his ankles under the water. 

Oliver shrugs. “I--yeah. I mean not with a man.” His sentence falls to a whisper at the end. Behind them, Elio hears voices, children playing. Splashing. It all seems too close for this conversation, for what he wants to do to Oliver--to do _with_ him. For what he wants Oliver to do to him. 

(Which is a long list of blurred words. Things that Elio would likely say yes to even if he doesn’t know what they are, and that unearned sense of trust scares him, makes him swallow hard, thick. Makes him wonder if he should have kept his mouth shut. Should have told Oliver he thinks about school, friends, traveling.)

“Okay. So, tell me about Alaska,” Elio says. It’s a safe thing to talk about, something they can speak of in full sentences and not worry who might hear, what they might think, who they might tell. 

So, Oliver tells him about Alaska, about how his hair was always crusted with salt, how he grew a beard to shield his face from the wind which was harsh even in the summer, then Elio tells him some of the regulars at the country club go on an Alaskan cruise once a year and that leads into Oliver honestly asking, “Will you play for me sometime?”

“Of course,” Elio says, but the thought makes him nervous. He hasn’t been nervous about playing for _anyone_ in so long that he wonders if he ever has been nervous. Maybe sometime, a long time ago, but not now. Except for Oliver, who he imagines would close his eyes and let his ears take over. “Yeah, definitely,” he adds, like if he rephrases the statement it will make him more confident. 

It doesn’t. 

He’s about to tell him he should come to the country club next week to hear him play, thinking if it’s a crowd of people _and_ Oliver, it won’t be so intense. But, then, there’s a voice behind them, close, too close. “Elio! You didn’t tell me you were coming into town.” 

Marzia.

Beside him, he hears Oliver sigh, annoyed and Elio brushes their ankles together again, hoping Oliver understands that he is equally annoyed by Marzia’s appearance but he can’t show it. 

Elio turns and suggests, “Maybe you should just put a bell on my neck.” The sun is in his eyes and he lifts a hand to shield them. 

“Maybe I should,” she teases, leaning over when she’s close enough to playfully wrap her hands around his throat. “What are you two doing?” she asks, then puts a toe between their hips like they’re supposed to make room for her between their bodies, even though there’s plenty of space on Elio’s other side. Elio scoots down a few planks, but Oliver doesn’t budge. Stares out at the water, his jaw tense. 

She settles between them, her thigh flush against Elio’s. 

“Oliver was telling me about being a burly fisherman in Alaska. He had a beard, you know,” Elio explains, and he can hear Oliver snort; hopes he doesn’t hold this all against Marzia. She doesn’t know, even though Elio could tell her. Marzia wouldn’t care; would probably give them their space, but Oliver doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know Marzia enough to trust her.

“Why is everything with you two about fish?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “You guys have plans? I was sent home early, so--”

“ _I_ have plans, actually,” Oliver says, and then he’s standing up, his shadow lengthening against the rippling water. He doesn’t detail the plans and Elio gets the sense he just doesn’t want to be a third wheel; he wishes he could tell him he’d never be a third wheel, not where Elio’s concerned. He debates offering to join Oliver, but knows Marzia enough to assume she’ll join without waiting for an invitation. “You two have fun,” he says, and the wooden dock creaks under his weight as he walks away. 

What would normally be a comfortable silence between Marzia and Elio--they’ve spent so many silent days on this dock, their feet in the water--is tense. “Did--sorry, does he not like me or something?” Marzia asks. “I know he doesn’t like Chiara, but I--”

“He doesn’t not like anyone,” Elio defends. Tries to shrug off the comment and asks, “Should we get ice cream? My treat.”

Marzia grins. 

_____

Elio doesn’t spend much time in town. He lies and says he told his mom he’d mow the lawn today. On his ride home, he goes by the dorms and slows down. Thinks if he sees a glimpse of Oliver, he’ll stop. Invite himself over, put them behind closed doors where no one can interrupt. The thought scares him, makes his hands shake. His cock twitches. 

The house is quiet when he gets back; his parents are probably on the lake, sipping their wine and lazily pedaling across the water. 

He’s not tired, it’s too early, but he goes up to his bedroom anyways. His laundry is folded on his dresser and his bed is made and--decorated with glossy paper. A fanned display of pamphlets. 

“What is--” he mutters, then notices a scrap piece of paper on the top of the pamphlets, his mother’s handwriting. 

_Let us know if you need to talk or if you have any questions. We love you._

“Oh my god,” he whispers, letting the note flutter to the bed. His cheeks burn as he picks up the pamphlets one by one, reading the titles and then letting them fall to the bed as well. 

_Great Sex is SAFE Sex.  
Let’s Talk! Healthy Oral Sex.   
Communication with Sexual Partners.  
Homosexual Intercourse.  
Love the Sex; Respect Yourself._

“Oh my _god_ ,” he says, louder this time, rolling his eyes. He picks up the pamphlets and note and opens his bedside table to drop them in and finds-- “Are you _kidding_ me?” --unopened lube and a fresh box of condoms. 

He can’t say he is surprised and, as he shoves the pamphlets into the drawer then slams it shut, he immediately wants to tell someone about this because it is absolutely ridiculous. But, what strikes him is _who_ he wants to tell. Normally, he’d be on the phone in a second with Marzia, saying, “Take a wild guess at what my parents left in my room.” 

But instead, he wants to call Oliver. Say, “So, I have this pamphlet my unhinged parents left out for me that’s titled ‘Let’s Talk! Healthy Oral Sex,’ and picture the blush that would creep up Oliver’s cheeks. 

He’ll just have to go back into town tomorrow to get Oliver’s phone number.


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday, it rains. Not a hard rain; they usually only get a couple downpours every year. Most of the rainfall is like today. A drizzle in the morning that postpones t-ball games and darkens the sky, making it feel like dawn until almost lunchtime. Usually, things dry up by early afternoon, but Elio has a feeling that won’t be the case today. The clouds are dark and the air feels electric. 

He wakes to the rain and rolls over, closes his eyes and tries to pass away another half hour in bed, but his mind stays awake with thoughts of Oliver. He’d seemed upset yesterday when he left--rightfully so, Elio thinks--and Elio wonders if he should have been upfront with Marzia right then. At the very least, if he should have kept his thigh pressed to Oliver’s, made no attempt to make room for her between them. 

But that would have been rude, obviously. And Marzia wouldn’t _care_ if he’d said he was spending time with Oliver. That they wanted to be alone. Maybe she’d have made a suspicious face, winked as she said, “O-o-okay, seems _fishy_ , but I’ll leave you two alone.” They both would’ve laughed at the fish reference--who knows? Maybe Oliver would have joined in. 

Then, he would have had Oliver to himself again. 

What would he do if he had Oliver all to himself again?

What wouldn’t he do?

Downstairs, Elio can hear movement. The insulation in their house isn’t the best; it’s meant to be a summer cabin, so during the winter they’re all layered in sweaters all day. It’s cozy at best, uncomfortable more often. But in the summer, it’s nice, except when he can easily hear footsteps and whispers that somehow seem louder in the summer months. Sometimes, he wonders if people are just quieter in the winter. 

But right now, he can hear hushed tones and he wonders if his parents are talking about him. Asking one another if they did the right thing, if they should do more. Or, maybe his dad doesn’t know. Thinks Annella overstepped. 

He’ll have to face them eventually. 

Elio showers quickly, then dresses and heads downstairs to find his parents drinking coffee on the three season porch. They don’t look up, but their eyes flit towards one another and he knows they were probably talking about him. About Oliver, maybe, too. “Morning,” he says, not waiting for a response before heading to the kitchen and making toast. He raises his voice and asks, “What are you two up to today?” 

“Oh, I think if the rain doesn’t break soon, we’ll be going into the city to do some shopping. Maybe make a day of it. See a movie,” his mother says casually, and he hears the scratch of the screen door. Grabs a knife and the jar of peanut butter. “An early dinner. Did you want to--”

“Not really,” he says, grins. Flexes his eyebrows. “Sounds like a date.”

The screen door slams; there’s never a way to close it quietly. “Every moment with your mother feels like a--”

“I’m trying to eat,” Elio jokes, but he still grins when his parents kiss, a chaste moment so much like many others. One he doesn’t look away from; he has friends whose parents have divorced and friends whose parents barely seem to speak. One day he wants to be able to look at someone whose face he has a seen a thousand times and have the same fondness that Samuel has; equally, he wants to be looked at that way and pretend to playfully ignore it like Annella does. 

“And you? Do you have plans?” his mother asks. “Need us to give you a--”

“Maybe some reading. Practicing. Trying something new next week,” he says, smoothing a thick layer of peanut butter onto his bread. Swirling the knife back and forth more than needed, but not wanting to look away. He’s a good liar, that’s not the problem. However, he’s still a bit uncomfortable about his parents, well, gifts? From last night. “When do you think you’ll be back?” 

His parents share a look and at the same time offer separate sentiments, then try to find a balance. 

“Late, very late--”  
“We might make a night of it, get a hotel--”  
“--oh, right, we had discussed that, and I think--”  
“--A hotel! Right--that’s a great--”

Elio sighs. “I’m not--can we just--” he stutters, then slams the knife down, peanut butter smearing across the counter. He lifts a hand to his eyes and blinds himself from them. “Can we just not make--like--you’re both being weird and there is nothing to be weird about, okay? I--I know what you think, but there’s nothing to think about and I wish you--”

“We’ll be back after nine,” Annella decides for all of them. “Closer to ten.”

Elio makes plans to be in his room by then. Or someone’s room, at least. 

_____

Elio opens his bedroom window. He’s just said goodbye to his parents and now he listens to them back out of the driveway. Put the car into drive and then hears the tires start rolling on wet asphalt, speeding up but getting quieter until they’re gone. 

He keeps the window open, even though the sill starts to collect droplets of rain. Not enough to warp it or spill over onto the floor, not unless there is a downpour. Listens for a few more minutes of silence. Cars at full speed passing by, the wind. He doesn’t hear a returning car. 

He gives it a few minutes, then grabs his lightest hoodie and pulls it on his arms, zips it. Slips the hood over his hair and then heads outside to grab his bike. 

_____

Town is quiet except for a few tourists sprinting under umbrellas and awnings from t-shirt stores to souvenir shops. When he coasts into the marina, the parking lot is relatively empty. A few cars in the lot with a courteous amount of space between them all. A couple standing on the edge of the beach, seeming to debate if the drizzle even makes a walk along the shore worth it. 

He locks his bike and walks in. Finds Marzia with her face pressed into her fist, eyes scanning in quick lines across the book she is reading.

“He’s in the back,” Marzia says, not looking up from her book. Elio reaches out to lift the book off the counter enough to see the title. 

“What?” 

“Fixing sails,” Marzia explains. “Figured you were looking for him.” 

Elio leans on the counter and grins at the wooden surface. How many summer days has he wasted in this store? Hundreds. It’s not uncommon for him to be here, to watch Marzia read or bug her with questions about what this does or what that thing is called. Elio knows how to sail, but he’s not an expert. 

It’s not uncommon, and he wonders exactly what makes her think he’s here for any reason other than to visit with her. To see her like he has hundreds of times. 

“Looking for--”

Marzia snaps her book closed, and then looks up. Darts a glance at the back room, then leans in closer. “Listen, he’s been a dick all day, and I know it’s because he hates--”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Elio whispers. 

“Well, he sure doesn’t--”

“He doesn’t _hate_ you,” Elio assures again. This time, louder. There’s a humming coming from the back room that he didn’t notice until it stops. Pauses long enough for someone to listen, then resumes. He can’t name the tune. “He just--listen--I--”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Marzia says, and she shrugs, her hostility seeming to drop as she searches for the page she had been on, and Elio is forever thankful for her. For her silence, for her quiet understanding. “He’s in the back and--yeah. Do you want to do anything tonight?” 

He starts to walk towards the open door that leads to what he knows will be a room filled with tripping and ducking hazards. The marina is all about keeping boats in working order, but maybe not their storage areas. “Is it supposed to clear up?” 

“Nah,” she shakes her head. She’s found her page and her face is back against her fist. “Supposed to storm, actually.”

“Weird,” Elio notes, then avoids an answer about the night and slips into the back of the store. 

____

He finds Oliver kneeling and bent over a sail that has been folded in quarters in order to fit on the floor space. It’s blue and white and Elio vaguely recognizes it as one (of probably many) that he has seen on the lake. 

Elio opens his mouth. Closes it. Watches Oliver sew along a seam with a thick needle and deft fingers. There’s something about the way he doesn’t have to hesitate that makes Elio smile. The way the needle pushes through the fabric and is pulled by fingers on the opposite side as if Oliver can see through the thick fabric. He’s done this before.

Oliver pulls the heavy thread--Elio is sure there is another word for it, but he’s not sure what it would be--taut, then grips the needle between his teeth. Asks, his words garbled from the strain of holding the thin piece of metal between his teeth while he tries to check his stitches, “What do you need?” 

Elio isn’t sure what to do, what to say. He doesn’t know what he needs. He doesn’t need anything. Really, he just wants to be close to Oliver. So he skirts around the open space, then moves to kneel on the sail. Takes the fabric from Oliver’s hands. Tightens it so he can check the seam. “Looks good,” he notes. 

Oliver looks up, his teeth bared with the needle between them. His expression is tight, confused. “Elio, what do you--”

And he can’t help it. It’s a combination, really, of a lot of things. How annoyed Oliver looks and how Elio likes that he’s annoyed, even if he doesn’t know about what. If he’s annoyed about yesterday, the rain, being interrupted. If that’s just the way his face looks when he’s working. 

Elio likes it. He can’t help it. 

It’s a combination of that and wanting to taste him. Wanting to know if his mouth tastes like cherry popsicles and harsh words, if there’s a bit of softness layered in. It’s a combination of wanting and needing and desiring, so Elio leans forward and presses his lips against Oliver’s, the touch awkward because there’s a delicate note due to the needle between Oliver’s teeth. 

A needle that is pushed out of his mouth with a tongue, scratched against Elio’s lips, the tang of blood sharp and sudden, but lapped up by Oliver’s tongue. The needle falls silently to the sail and Elio reaches down to search for it, finds only Oliver’s knees and resolves to hold onto him. Hold onto his bare knee because he’s wearing those ridiculous shorts and--

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says suddenly, the words hitting Elio’s ears before he even realizes Oliver has pulled back. “I’m--”

And Elio doesn’t let him be sorry, doesn’t let him apologize. He surges forward to kiss him again, press his tongue against the seam of Oliver’s lips, then doesn’t wait for an invitation. Presses forward, fucks into his mouth. Finds a shocked, stiff tongue and licks against it, swipes against it, until Oliver comes to life, rising up to his knees and cupping a hand against the back of Elio’s head. Fingers soft in his hair, not gripping but present. 

It takes Elio’s hands on Oliver’s waist, his tongue pressing tight and deliberate into Oliver’s mouth for Oliver to lean into his body. To show Elio what could have laid on top of him the other night. What could have held him down on the beach and fucked him. 

It takes that for Elio to turn his head to the side, break the seal of their lips and gasp for air. “Sorry, I--”

“No,” Oliver whispers, claiming his kiss again and pulling Elio close, closer, closer, so close until they’re toppling over onto the sail, Elio on his back, thigh slotted between Oliver’s, feeling how his cock is hardening, how Oliver’s hand is tightening in his hair and how it’s not just a reassuring touch anymore, but a need, a want, a--

There’s a distant cough. The drop of something heavy. A call from the front room. “Hey! So--they’re telling us to close up because a storm--you know--like--okay a storm is coming in!” Marzia calls from the front. 

Oliver looks down at Elio, his licks glistening with spit. With Elio’s saliva, mixed with his own. “I should put this away,” he whispers, closing his eyes and starting to pull back. For a moment, before his eyes closed, though, Elio saw it. A look of shame, of regret. 

“She won’t say anything, you know. And I won’t--”

“Did you tell her?” Oliver asks, holding a hand out to help Elio to his feet. Elio brushes himself off and moves aside so Oliver can start to roll the sail up. “It’s fine if you--”

“No, of course not,” Elio says, quiet. Scratches the back of his head and wonders if he should help, but Oliver’s hands are skilled, his movements brisk and practiced. “I--you can trust me.”

“I know, I just wanted to hear you say it, and-- _fuck_ ,” he hisses, yanking his hand back from the perfectly rolled sail which starts to unfurl with the lack of pressure. 

Instantly, Elio is at Oliver’s side, grabbing Oliver’s wrist and looking at what caused the exclamation. The forgotten needle is sticking out of Oliver’s pointer finger. It’s not in deep, but enough that it can stand perpendicular to his digit. Elio pulls it out, then watches as a tiny drop of blood blooms from the pin prick wound and, without thinking, he puts his mouth over Oliver’s finger, runs his tongue along his skin, tastes iron and what is probably dirt and dust from the sail. 

It feels motherly and, indeed, Elio can remember his own mother doing this to him countless times after a papercut, a scratch, a pinprick. He sucks softly, trying to coax an end to the bleeding and he feels Oliver sigh, his breath against Elio’s face. 

He sucks again, harder, this time looking up at Oliver and knowing exactly how he looks. Knows this isn’t motherly anymore as he hollows his cheeks, swirls his tongue around the top of Oliver’s finger. 

And Oliver seems to like it, lets his mouth fall open, his tongue skirting his lower lip. Seems to like it until he pulls his hand back, wrapping his other hand around his damp finger. Says, “Stop, Elio, I--”

“Sorry, sorry,” Elio apologizes, suddenly ashamed at his boldness, his want. 

Oliver laughs and shakes his head. Says, “No--not--Elio, I have to walk out in front of Marzia and--” he glances a look down at his shorts, which are bulging the slightest bit at the crotch. Not obvious, but clearly getting there. 

“Oh,” Elio says. He can hear the rain starting to hammer on the building, striking the metal roof with such force that Elio imagines it will leave dents. 

He thinks about his bedroom window left open at home, but doesn’t sit on the thought too long as he watches Oliver’s eyes flash with the same look from earlier; this time, he doesn’t close his eyes though, and Elio reaches forward, taking his wrist again. This time, Elio pulls it to his own crotch so Oliver can feel that he, too, has been affected by this, by them. “I’m going to tell Marzia you’re giving me a ride home,” he explains, standing up before Oliver has to make the choice to touch him or pull away. 

“I--Elio, my wipers are broken, I can’t--”

Elios is halfway to the front room; he spins and adjusts his pants and grins. “I know,” he says and then laughs when Oliver seems to recognize what he’s saying. 

And he hopes Oliver knows exactly what he’s saying, because it’s not, ‘I want to be alone with you.’ It’s, ‘I want there to just be us. I want to close a door and lock it and let you do what you want to me, ask you if I can do the same. I want to kiss you everywhere, especially the places you yourself rarely touch or think of. I want to watch you, I want to be watched. I want, I want, I want.” 

Marzia doesn’t seem surprised when Elio explains that he’ll be leaving his bike locked up outside and getting a ride with Oliver. In fact, she seems to expect it and says, “Drive safe,” sternly when Oliver comes out from the back. 

“Always do,” Oliver tells her, but his eyes are on Elio the entire time. 

Elio thinks, _He knows exactly what I was saying._

**Author's Note:**

> bartbarthelme on tumblr.


End file.
